


Potential

by deep13



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Career Changes, Character Study, Gen, Pre-Series, aging in sports, unspecified pining, victor fails at adulting, victor is not cut out for existential dilemmas, victor/yuuri hints, yuri is a cranky kitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8573839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deep13/pseuds/deep13
Summary: Victor, who’d been staring at the ceiling through his boozy haze, spoke slowly. “Hey, Yuri. What do you want to be when you grow up?”“A champion figure skater,” Yuri snapped, like it was so obvious he was offended to be asked.Victor had to grin at the bluster. “Yeah, but… After that?”Yuri didn’t seem to have an answer for that, but eventually he said, less belligerently, “I don’t know. I’m only fifteen.”Me neither, Victor didn't say, and I'm twenty-six.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just wish the show would give Victor some backstory. In the meantime, have some pre-series introspective!Victor. I am prepared to be jossed.
> 
> edit after ep 10 aired: Yep, jossed. Ah well, if you're going to get jossed, at least get jossed with an epic drunken dance party.

_July, 2015  
St. Petersburg_

Alone in the rink, Victor reversed direction and attempted the step sequence again. The music flowed through his senses, touch and motion and heart. His body would give shape to the evoked emotion–

No, too rough. He needed a smoother pattern, but without decreasing the technical difficulty.

He had only picked out the song, “Stay Close to Me,” yesterday morning. It was already the middle of summer, which was late for him to merely begin working on his free program. The latest he’d ever left it, at any rate.

There was the problem presented by his last performance, of course. He’d done a flamenco-inspired piece, flashy and bold, sensual and light, and he’d broken a record for his score. Many commentators had called it the epitome of his career. As if he could never top it.

Challenge accepted.

Victor was used to trying to outmatch himself, year to year. It was how he kept winning. His choreography aimed to convey the specific emotion instilled in him by the music, and he took his wins as evidence of his success. It pleased him to see people startled by the mood he set, pleased him to be unpredictable, versatile, and captivating.

He had to do something different, this year. Something with more substance, not stirring the libido but moving the heart. Well, not that Victor could help if some libidos were moved in the process; he knew he was attractive and used it like any other of his assets.

So decided, he set about trying to find his muse. Except then none of the music he’d listened to really spoke to him, and there had been many hours devoted to sampling a wide variety. His short program was set already, choreographed last season before the Grand Prix when the monotony of practicing the same two pieces over and over for months had finally gotten to him. But the free program had to be something magnificent, and Victor found himself at an unexpected loss.

The longer he looked, the more frustrated he got, and the less fitting each successive piece seemed. Yakov had gotten testy over his indecision, moreso than his baseline disgruntled demeanor.

“If you’re not settled on anything in a week, I’ll choose it for you!” he had threatened loudly, eight days ago.

An uncharacteristic threat, because one of the ways that Yakov, despite his various personality deficiencies, earned his reputation as a renowned figure skating coach was encouraging his skaters’ artistic growth and personal expression, either in music selection or choreography. He’d fight about it if it piqued his stodgy sensibilities, but as long as one could win arguments – or, like feisty little Yuri, ignore instructions entirely – _and_ win competitions, he grudgingly let his skaters do as they liked.

Still, Victor took the threat seriously. The old man’s taste ran to classic ballet soundtracks, which Victor didn’t object to on principle, but his and Yakov’s preferences skewed in opposite directions. So, rather than be stuck with something as trite as “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” he redoubled his efforts – to no avail.

But all that time spent listening to heart-wrenching music – contemporary and classical, instrumental, symphonic, synthetic, acoustic, operatic, _dramatic_ – gave him more time to think than he’d had in a long time, and he realized something.

Quietly, for some time now, a listless pall grew slowly in the back of Victor’s mind. It had a little to do with a hairline starting to recede and the lines around his eyes softly deepening. He tried to ignore these for the most part, like any young man in his prime would. But there was more to it than simple vanity.

There was something missing. An ache of loneliness, despite his many friends and sometimes lovers. The latter never lasted long, but that was the nature such things in Victor’s experience and he’d always been fine with a more casual approach to dating.

Yet the niggling, nonspecific discontent that peaked in the morning when he woke up to his big bed in his nice apartment, and realized the warmth next to him was just Makkachin sleeping at his side.

The clock had been ticking all the while he’d searched and began to despair. And then, desperate on the morning of Yakov’s deadline, he’d been scraping through an obscure operatic compilation and stumbled across “Stay Close to Me.” Listening to it, he’d shivered with his whole body. Marvelous operatic tenor, tender and troubled, reaching a grandiose epiphany, the whole mood both vulnerable and triumphant. Looking up the lyrics and their translation confirmed what he already knew.

This was his song, the music reaching inside to pull forth the pure longing that lay behind his current ennui, and to illuminate the cause. He reached his own epiphany.

He, Victor Nikiforov, had never truly been in love.

It bothered him. The fact that it bothered him bothered him, too, because it seemed such a trivial thing to be upset about. He lived a charmed life, otherwise, and he had not stopped enjoying himself. He was living the archetypal dream of being good at what he loved and professionally successful at it. He was a social media darling; he had friends and fans across the world. He even managed to stay on speaking terms with most of his exes. Though as he got older, the more he saw friends and colleagues settling down, and wondered abstractly what it must be like. How busy people made it work.

He never wanted to give up skating… but…

Victor huffed a frustrated sigh and tilted his blades into a sudden stop, ice shavings flying. Now thoroughly distracted from the music, he pulled his phone out from his pocket and paused the song.

It would be no good trying to map his moves in this state. He ran a tired hand through his hair, feeling the dampness of sweat on his brow as he checked the time. Almost eight in the evening. No wonder the rink was deserted. No wonder his feet and ankles felt like they were slowly becoming one with his skates; he’d been at this for hours. Yakov would still be present somewhere; the old codger never would leave the building if it didn’t close, and Victor had felt the same often enough.

Not tonight. Tomorrow he’d hammer down the choreography, get his training back on track. Tonight, he was going to go home, walk Makkachin, and pretend like he wasn’t having some kind of premature midlife crisis over his single status.

But when he was rinkside and at last putting his comfy sneakers on, Milla entered, the door to the observation deck shutting behind her with a soft sound that still echoed in the silence.

“Hey, Victor!” the girl greeted him, smiling and dressed in street clothes. Perhaps dressed up, even, a cute top and short skirt pair themselves with meticulous make-up that screamed ‘date night,’ and Victor had to smile back. She’d been gushing about her new hockey player boyfriend for a week, not daunted by Yuri’s juvenile gagging noises.

Victor whistled softly. “Look at you, all dolled up. What’s the occasion?”

Milla’s smile dimmed. “It’s my birthday. We’d all made plans to go out to the clubs, since I’m eighteen, remember?”

Victor didn’t, actually, but it did sound like something he’d do. But his bad memory was his most notorious failing, and Milla had wanted him to come along badly enough to remind him. 

“Oh! Of course, sorry. Happy birthday! No wonder you look so grown up.” She did, too, now that Victor took the time to really look at her. Trim and delicately curvy, attractive if one liked that sort of thing. Strange how Victor hadn’t noticed before.

“Thanks,” Milla said, equal parts flattered and sarcastic. “So are you still coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Victor reassures hastily. “I just need to run home and get cleaned up. Is it all right if I meet up with you all in a bit?”

“Sure,” Milla replied brightly. “We’re going to dinner first, and then we’re going to do a bar crawl, so we won’t be staying in the same place all night. Text me when you’re on your way and I’ll let you know where to meet us.” 

She hitched her duffle bag on her shoulder and walked out, waving. Alone, Victor put his skates away, deciding he’d shower and change at home. He needed to walk Makkachin, regardless, and he didn’t carry clubbing clothes with him to train.

“Eighteen, huh,” he murmured to himself as he picked up his own bag and headed towards the exit.

At eighteen, his career was marked by a mixed bag of wins and losses. No skater had a perfect record, not even Victor. But the losses were growing pains, and Victor had never been one to dwell on failure. When he’d been eighteen, everything had been only the beginning, everything tinged with the fresh light of youth.

And now, Milla was eighteen. A far cry from the sprightly little twelve-year-old who’d begun training with Yakov when Victor had been only twenty himself.

It was a bit shocking how quickly time passed. Milla was already eighteen. Yuri would turn fifteen soon, and next year he’d be debut in adult competitions. Victor felt proud of them, quite fond of his younger rinkmates. They all spent so much of the time together training that they became a kind of family. Milla and Yuri bickered like siblings, and Victor himself felt like a cool older cousin.

Older being the key word. His knees and hips had joined in aching chorus with his feet. He _had_ been working on his jump sequences earlier, until Yakov told him to quit showing off and work on the real technical aspects. That he was feeling it now said something damning all its own.

Victor tried not to think about his thinning hair and failed.

Then he tried to picture what he wanted to do after this season was over – and failed.

He didn’t want to quit skating, but he couldn’t keep doing this indefinitely. He’d never seriously thought about it, much as he’d never seriously found himself in love. And suddenly, his own birthday loomed closer, the latter half of his twenties dwindling even as they stretched before him with no plan at all.

He would have to quit, sooner or later, wouldn’t he? And when he did, how would he make his way in the world? Out of the limelight, who would he become?

What was there to him, to his life, if he wasn’t skating competitively?

And when he wasn’t the famous figure skater Victor Nikiforov, when he was just Victor, who would still care about him?

The questions unsettled him, because he wasn’t sure he had a single answer. He wasn’t prone to this kind of introspection often. Something he maybe ought to work on, because abruptly there were heavy issues piling up on his doorstep, filled with all the memos he seemed to have missed over the years.

Well, these weren’t the sort of questions to be decided in one night. He had time to think about it, anyway. At least this whole season, and maybe the one after, who knew? Victor simply was not meant for existential crises, but he usually was good at managing the practicalities of life. He wasn’t just a pretty face. He was confident he’d figure it out, like he always did. 

He smiled, feeling a bit better already. Maybe he could become a figure skating commentator; that would be fun. He’d be more able to stay in touch with his friends, for sure.

But right now, he had party to go to, and Milla would never forgive him if he no-showed. And what kind of ‘cool older cousin’ would he be if he neglected to show her the proper way to take shots?

He smiled, picked up his bag and jacket, and went to have some fun.

*

_Mid-November, 2015  
The Rostelecom Cup, Moscow_

The night after receiving his gold medal, Victor retired to his hotel room after too much drink, alone. This despite Christophe’s best advances, all green bedroom eyes and irritating facial hair. It wasn’t that Victor didn’t like Chris, exactly. He just seemed to have lost his taste for casual flings, and he wasn’t going to get serious over a guy like Christophe.

They didn’t even live in the same country. Their one time in the sack last year hadn’t recommended a repeat performance. Not that it hadn’t been fun for both of them, but Chris was the sort to be both possessive and philandering, a bad combination if there ever was one.

Victor lowered himself to his hotel bed, not undressing save for his shoes. There’d been champagne, a lot of champagne, and he thanked his lucky stars he’d had the foresight to book an afternoon return flight to St. Petersburg. He was in for a rough morning, judging by the way the bed spun around and around. He shifted uncomfortably, something tangling up around his neck.

Oh, yeah, the medal. He was still wearing it. Heavy and annoying. He pulled it off and let it thunk softly on the carpet next to the bed.

His free program had swept the competition aside at every event thus far. Critics and commentators alike swooned at the vivid layers of emotion imbued into his performance. Although the audience still loved him, there was no refreshing twist of surprise this time. Why should they be surprised that Victor could pull off the fragile, triumphant defenselessness of love? He was so versatile, the king of the rink, and they came to see him skate because they knew he would win and look good while doing it.

Victor didn’t know why this annoyed him so much, except that for the first time, the audience seemed to completely miss the point. He wasn’t properly connecting to them, even as they adored him. This had ironically enhanced the feeling of searching, of yearning in his performance, because Victor was starting to feel like Georgi with how personal this routine had become.

He had won, and right now he drunkenly had no doubt he would win in Sochi, as well.

The thought wasn’t exactly depressing. Victor loved to win. A key requirement of being successful in any competitive sport was the carrot-and-stick motivation of loving to win and hating to lose. Still, there was something missing from the feeling of a foregone victory compared to one hard-fought, where the threat of failure made everything so much sweeter in the end.

Idly, he toyed with the idea that one of his competitors, maybe Chris, might somehow steal the Grand Prix gold from him. Then he could make a glorious comeback next season, and–

“How boring,” he muttered into the dim hotel room, and then frowned, puzzled at himself.

“Ugh, shut up, you noisy drunk,” Yuri said from the second bed.

Victor’s head rose off the pillow, staring at Yuri until he recalled he’d volunteered to be Yuri’s chaperone at this competition, as Yakov had come down with bronchitis the day before they were supposed to leave. Not that Victor made a good chaperone, obviously, because he’d forgotten about it as soon as the first bottle popped. But, well, he at least had come back to the room alone, so that had to count for some adult points. And Yuri was fine, all in one piece, so what was the harm done?

Yeah, nice try, Victor.

“Sorry,” he said, guilt hushing his voice. “Go back to sleep.”

But Yuri didn’t, because after a couple minutes’ silence, the boy huffed loudly and turned on his side to face Victor. “What’s boring?”

Victor, who’d been staring at the ceiling trying to find the answer to that through his boozy haze, spoke slowly. “Hey, Yuri. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A champion figure skater,” Yuri snapped, like it was so obvious he was offended to be asked.

Victor had to grin at the bluster. “Yeah, but… After that?”

Yuri didn’t seem to have an answer for that, but eventually he said, less belligerently, “I don’t know. I’m only fifteen.”

 _Me neither_ , Victor didn't say, _and I'm twenty-six._

“You should start thinking about it, though,” Victor said, more big brother than cool older cousin. His smile faded to something fond, a little pensive. “It’s important.”

“Whatever,” Yuri snapped. “You woke me up at two in the morning for this bullshit lecture?”

“No,” Victor said. “I didn’t mean to. Still. It’s good to have a plan.”

Yuri gave Victor a measuring look, his eyes catching the light from the digital alarm clock on the nightstand between the beds. “What’s yours?”

And Victor had to laugh at himself, rueful and ridiculous. “Don’t have one!”

Yuri actually snarled, flipping onto his back and kicking the mattress once. “You’re a shitty adult, you know that? Practice what you preach, old man!”

That parting barb struck a little close to home, but Yuri never did pull any punches. Victor was just annoyed enough to retort, “What, like what I told you about your spread-eagle in the second half of your short program?”

“Ugh, don’t try to act like you’re my coach.”

“I’m serious, though, your free leg–”

“Are you going to quit skating?”

The bald question wiped the smile off Victor’s face. No one had asked him outright, though there was rampant speculation in the media and online that he was considering retirement. It baffled him how it was such a common rumor. No serious injuries, no signs of declining prowess, and _he_ certainly never brought up retirement to anyone. It was a little insulting that they’d assume he was on his way out just because he’d be turning twenty-seven just after the Grand Prix.

That wasn’t the reason. That wasn’t the only reason, at any rate.

“I don’t know,” Victor said. The darkness and late hour, to say nothing of the champagne, conspired to loosen his tongue. “No matter what I do, I can’t surprise anyone anymore. I win, and I think a lot of people take it for granted. Even me, and that’s not why I skate. Like this there’s no… No risk. Like I’ve peaked but the peak became a plateau.

“I love figure skating, but like this, it feels hollow. And disrespectful of my competitors. I just don’t know what else to do.”

After a thoughtful pause, Yuri said, “If you keep skating, I’ll be your competition. If you quit now, does that mean you’re afraid I’ll knock you off the plateau?”

Victor snorted. “I quake with terror before you, kitten.”

“Gross, don’t call me that.”

Victor bit his lip to keep from calling him that. They were having a serious conversation.

He decided it was probably okay to finally voice another question that had occurred to him, largely from watching Yuri’s final Junior season.

Because with Yuri, he was genuinely cheering the kid on, the joy of Yuri’s wins fresh and uncomplicated, in contrast to his own. And though Yuri complained about Victor’s unsolicited advice, more often than not, he’d take it. When Yuri improved, Victor felt an unselfish kind of pride to see him do so well. 

It surprised him. He _liked_ helping Yuri reach his potential. And he knew the figure skating circuit like the back of his hand. And he had a lot of valuable experience and techniques to share.

As airily as he could, he wondered aloud, “If I quit skating, would I make a good coach?”

Yuri’s response was immediate. “Of course not. You’d forget your appointments and show up at the wrong rink on competition days. And if you ever did train anyone, they’d go deaf from your nagging.”

Victor was well used to Yuri’s prickly, often crude, always rude personality. He had seen past it on many occasions. But the teasing, offhand dismissal stung more than the ‘old man’ comment. Perhaps because Victor had proved he was irresponsibly forgetful this very evening. Ah, he just wouldn’t sign any skaters that were minors. Adults could chaperone themselves.

“Really don’t think I could do it, huh?” he asked mildly.

“Don’t take it as a challenge,” Yuri grumped. Almost grudgingly, he added, “Anyway, you have to stick around until my debut, remember? You promised.”

Victor didn’t remember, but it did sound like him. He’d get details in the morning. He wouldn’t remember them if he asked in this state. The whole exhausting day was finally catching up with him. He was far too tired to keep up this heavy conversation, especially when his confidant was a decade younger, grouchy from being awoken, and determined to heckle everything Victor said.

He yawned, rolling over into his crisp hotel sheets, his back to Yuri. “Yes, yes. Now, time for all cranky kittens to get some rest. Good night.”

Yuri fussed and grumbled for a few minutes more after this dismissal, but eventually the complaints petered out and Victor stared into the darkness, vague dissatisfaction that Yuri didn’t think him capable and that familiar lonely chill in his heart blurring drunkenly together as sleep finally took him.

*

_April, 2016  
St. Petersburg_

The aftermath of his fifth Grand Prix win was something of a blur for Victor. Of course he was happy he won; he’d worked his ass off for this medal, just like all the others. But, like he’d confessed to Yuri, the win wasn’t as sweet as in years past, and tall tales from acquaintances about his over-celebration of his Rostelecom Cup win still dogged him to the point where he found himself actually drinking responsibly at the end of a season.

If there was a surer sign he was getting old, he didn’t want to find out. He was already developing a paranoia of his hairbrush.

Several times he’d been cornered at press conferences by questions about his future plans in figure skating, and even he hadn’t been able to keep the cracks in his game face from showing.

“Well, I don’t have any firm plans of retiring yet,” he’d adlibbed to two dozen filming and flashing cameras.

That was true, even, because he _still_ had no firm plan. That being the case, he had started choreographing a new short program, but even once apparently decided to stay with the sport, he couldn’t even make up his mind about which arrangement of the song he preferred.

“You don’t need to jump straight back into it, you know. It’s no good if you can’t focus. Take some time off,” Yakov had told him, gruff in his concern. “Get your head screwed on straight.”

“Like _that_ will ever happen,” Victor had grinned back, but he had taken a break.

It was good to be home with Makkachin. He loafed around in his pajamas and went for jogs, leading Makkachin through parks still covered in snow. He posted to Instagram his thanks and dodged more questions about the state of his career, getting more and more irritated. By the third day, he’d put his phone on silent to resist the temptation to respond inappropriately for a sports role model.

But he had always been utter crap at resisting temptation, so he still found himself checking his social media several times a day. Which was how he found out that his name was trending on Twitter – but not for the reason he’d feared.

Not even because of _him_ , really.

No, it was because there was a video of someone else skating to Victor’s “Stay Close to Me” routine.

Yuuri Katsuki. Or Katsuki Yuuri, since he was from Japan. The name rang a vague bell, because hadn’t there been a Yuuri at the Grand Prix? He thought he remembered Russia’s own Yuri bitching about sharing a name with a crybaby loser.

Not knowing what to expect, Victor played the video.

And found himself surprised.

Immensely surprised.

He played the video again as soon as it ended. His hands curled around his phone, not quite white-knuckled.

Victor wasn’t surprised that he remembered Yuuri, once he saw him. He hadn’t seen Yuuri compete at Sochi, mired in interviews whenever he wasn’t rinkside or on the ice, but he remembered Christophe later cooing in mock sympathy at the poor performance.

No, Victor remembered Yuuri because Yuuri had snubbed him. Over a well-intentioned offer of a photo. Yuuri hadn’t even declined; he’d just wordlessly walked away.

Victor hadn’t been so flatly rejected by anyone in years. The odd thing was, Victor thought Yuuri had looked so _dejected_ about doing it. That was the reason it stuck with him; he’d been a little baffled by it.

This performance, though. This was four minutes of true, thrilling surprise. Not only that someone clearly not prime condition – Yuuri had put on some weight, though the loose clothing helped disguise it – could do his routine almost as well as he had, but that Yuuri was – 

Yuuri was _feeling_ the music. His whole body was an extension of the wordless message of the music, which translated because it transcended language entirely. Yuuri spoke with his body, flowing through the steps, confessing a pure yearning to love and be loved, blending a poignant mix of earnest hope and desperate vulnerability.

Mother of god, his face. Somehow the camera managed to get a close-up of Yuuri’s face, and Victor felt his heart give a startled quickstep.

Yes, that. That was what Victor had been trying to say all season long. 

And, wow. He landed every jump.

Victor knew better than anyone just how difficult his routine was. There was no way this guy had aced it on the first try. No, he’d have had to practice, he’d have had to pick up the choreography from videos. It might have been a whim, but it was a whim into which he’d obviously put a lot of work. Why? 

The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. He had to know more about this man.

Victor spend the day researching, aka internet stalking, Kastuki Yuuri. There wasn’t much to stalk. His Facebook was private, he didn’t have a Twitter that Victor could find, and his Instagram hadn’t been updated in two months. His Wikipedia page wasn’t particularly enlightening, aside from learning that Yuuri was four years younger than Victor, had been skating since he was twelve, and had never won significant victories on the international circuit until last season.

Which made the video he found of Yuuri’s inglorious showing at the Grand Prix a little hard to watch. Doubly so because of the wide gap between this performance and the copy of Victor’s. In Sochi, Yuuri was so tense Victor could almost see him vibrating with nerves. He flubbed two of his three quads, visibly shaken by the second fall. Victor winced; that one looked like it hurt. At the end, the audience response was nothing more than polite, and Yuuri did indeed look like he was fighting tears in the kiss-and-cry as the judges announced his dismal score.

Curiouser and curiouser. Had Yuuri been so frustrated by his poor performance that he’d undertaken Victor’s far more difficult routine just to prove he could do it? Why Victor’s routine, when he wouldn’t even deign to shake Victor’s hand? Did Yuuri think they were rivals? Was this a challenge issued for next season?

But more digging revealed forum threads speculating about Yuuri’s chances of retirement. The fans all seemed pretty sure that this was about to happen; Victor could relate. One commenter, allegedly a former rinkmate from Yuuri’s skate club in Detroit, confirmed that he’d returned to his family in Japan. After Japanese Nationals, where Yuuri had continued his plummet to the bottom of the rankings, no one had heard from him.

Until now, with this video.

Again, Victor watched Yuuri skate captivatingly to “Stay Close to Me,” this time focusing on the routine with a professional assessment. No one coached Yuuri on this, that was clear in his unpolished footwork. What made it amazing was his stamina. Not many skaters could manage four quads, much less manage them in less-than-stellar fitness. And the expressiveness of his body was a force to be reckoned with even after multiple views.

Victor paused the playback on the close-up of Yuuri’s round face, an aching, naked tenderness shining in his eyes. Again, Victor felt his heart quicken.

He didn’t know why Yuuri had skated his routine, but there was no denying that Yuuri _understood_ everything Victor had been trying to communicate. And it had moved him, _Victor_ had moved him, just as Victor was moved by being understood and understanding in turn.

A fragment of the song came to him, _I battiti del cuore / Si fondono tra loro_. ‘Our heartbeats blend together.’ Yes, it felt like that. They were strangers, but Victor had the strangest conviction that Yuuri had felt the pang in Victor’s heart, and vice versa, the feeling vibrating between them, like two tuning forks humming in response to one another.

He was being ridiculous. Victor closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head at himself as he leaned back on his couch, Makkachin snug along his side.

How had Yuuri failed so hard last season, when he was capable of this beauty?

There was real, raw potential in him. It was as if no one, not even Yuuri, could see it.

Victor scratched Makkachin’s ears idly, thinking. The longer Victor thought, the brighter gleamed the embers of an idea.

Well, why not go meet him? Yakov wanted Victor to take time off anyway. A vacation to Japan – Wikipedia said Yuuri hailed from Hasetsu-cho, Kyushu, wherever that was; Tripadvisor said they had a lot of hot springs to soak in – might just be what Victor needed to shake off his slump. And maybe shake Yuuri out of his. It would be a shame if this video was the last the figure skating world saw of Katsuki Yuuri.

Yuuri had clearly not hung up his skates entirely, or this video wouldn’t exist in the first place. However, the fact that he’d left his skate club on the other side of the world was a fairly definite statement. That also meant Yuuri couldn’t have a coach right now. 

So what if Victor offered to coach him?

He sat up abruptly, dislodging Makkachin who gave a startled yelp. Victor absently patted him in reassurance, his mind suddenly racing, suddenly thrilled. Because _yes_ , that was a fantastic idea!

Yes. If Victor could get the world to see what he saw in Yuuri’s performance, then he’d know if he was cut out to be a figure skating coach. If Victor couldn’t get such an obviously talented skater on a winning track, then he clearly wasn’t. With such potential, there was no excuse. Yuuri could take the world by storm. 

If he accepted, of course.

Not really a concern, to Victor’s mind. He was certain that his star power would carry a lot of weight. Yuuri would be a fool to turn him down. Besides, he already knew Yuuri liked his routines – which meant he liked to challenge himself; a useful trait in a competitive athlete.

Victor _loved_ a challenge. It just had been a long time since he’d truly had one.

Decision made, all thoughts of failure drowned in a high tide of exuberant excitement. Victor grinned happily to himself. He had a plan. Finally. And the fact that no one was expecting this turn of events, and no one would be able to predict what would happen next only sweetened the rush.

He tweeted, _That’s it! I’m going to Japan to become a wise old sensei to #KatsukiYuuri! \\(*v*)/_ , and set about making reservations.

**Author's Note:**

> I do want to write more of this, but this seemed a good place to stop for now. Might be more chapters or a sequel later on, who knows?
> 
> Mostly, I refuse to believe that Victor has no depth of character and is just here as a manic pixie dream guy. Not that he's not a manic pixie dream guy, because he kind of is. But there are these little tiny glimpses in the show of what Victor is like when he's in a more serious mode, and it's driving me nuts not having more serious!Victor to go on.


End file.
